


only the sun has come this close (only the sun)

by westminster



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, and my dubious knowledge of men's tailoring, sort of (?) a suit kink, suits are a frequent feature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: Q's suit does not meet Bond's standards. Luckily, Bond's always been pretty handy with pins and a tape measure.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Kudos: 140





	only the sun has come this close (only the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> you kiss the backs of my legs and I want to cry.  
> only the sun has come this close,  
> only the sun.  
> \- shauna barbosa

Q's naturally a very polite person. He doesn't mind queuing for his morning coffee, would be mortified if he didn't thank a bus driver and buys extra milk from his corner shop just so he can ask how Joe's grandkids are doing. But, God if this air hostess doesn't leave him alone soon he might - _might_ \- be forced to give her a dirty look. She proceeds to read out the entire drinks list, even though he's repeatedly told her he doesn't want anything. She's started on the wine list when he begins to scratch at the leather arm rests, just to try and get the tension out. The woman seems to finally get the hint, pausing mid-sentence and apologising for the disturbance.

As soon as she's out of sight, he can pull his laptop out, opening the files he'd been sent that morning. They detail the specifics of the case 007 is currently working, something about a disgraced member of the Swedish royal family and a drug-smuggling cartel. Information that doesn't explain why Bond's gone through all six Q-branch guns in the span of two months. It takes his mind off the fact he's currently one thousand feet in air defying every law science has ever taught him. Yes, he might be freaking out a bit. Q's never been too fond of flying. 

The work does help, slightly. Takes his mind of the _thrum thrum thrum_ of the engine underneath his feet. The flight to Estonia is just under three hours, but Q feels like he's spent his whole life working through these documents, beads of sweat multiplying as the turbulence increases. He switches from trying to digest a crappy sit-com, to steadying his hands as he types out an email to his colleague that he knows he'll never send. By the end of the flight he's started every task on his to-do list and has finished none of them. It’s put him seriously behind schedule but Q only feels pure relief when the wheels hit the ground. 

Q's been shipped off on enough of these trips to recognise an MI6 driver when he sees one. He heads straight to the Bentley that purrs outside the airport. The irony of the chauffeur standing next to a 'no parking' sign is not lost on Q. He feels quite powerful as tourists hopelessly searching for their coach gawk at the scrawny young man, overwhelmed by his mismatched bags and jumper with more holes than fabric. He hopes they think he's some quirky billionaire tech kid, or perhaps a trust fund baby in the midst of a nervous breakdown. As he slides into the back seat of the car, Q finds his knees colliding with Bond's, James' face already too close. 

Q mumbles a quick hello and is met with Bond's familiar smirk. It's unnerving, gets under Q's skin, a completely condescending action. The conversation ends with that. Q's just happy the ride is smooth, uneventful. It calms his stomach after the horrendous flight. There's a ten, maybe fifteen minute period of silence, in which Q recites the periodic table over and over again to distract from the awkwardness he feels with Bond. Then, the car drift off the main roads, up winding paths to the gorgeous secluded villas that lie above. When the car comes to a halt, Bond looks at Q for the second time during their journey. 

"You're partying tonight. Get dressed. Finest clothes, no exceptions."

Q ends up trailing behind Bond, watching him somehow manage to retreat into the shadows of a brightly-lit house. He huffs, stalking into the nearest bathroom and tipping the contents of his bags onto the floor. He rifles through the pile of clothes like a raccoon in rubbish, trying to find anything that might pass as half-decent. 

***

James gasps when Q walks out of the bathroom. 

“It’s just an old suit...” Q trails off, the slightest hints of pink spreading across his cheeks betray him, “the only thing I brought on such sort notice. You didn’t tell me there were soirées involved. Only fights and more exotic reptiles with a hunger for Q branch equipment.”

Bond puts his head in his hands and groans. Q realises he’s read the situation wrong and the blush grows more prominent.

“Do even realise how many etiquette laws you are breaking right now? We go to that party and you’ll be kicked to the curb. This is Baron Holstein we’re following. The dishwashers will be dressed better than you are.” 

“There are etiquette laws? Who’s imposing them? The etiquette police? Bond, don’t tell me I’m going to be dragged away and gagged if I pick the wrong soup spoon up.” 

"You get your spoons wrong and I'll do it myself. How many times do I have to tell you to start with the cutlery furthest from you and work your way in? It's not my fault you survive on those awful microwave meals." 

Q opens his mouth to make some snarky retort but he knows the more he does, the longer they'll be trapped in this cycle, the battle to see which one of them can out-wit the other, which one of them breaks first. He normally entertains these little fights because it's not like he could win a physical one against Bond anytime soon. But he's been keeping score, and Q's pretty sure he's two points ahead of Bond in the wit department. He decides to concede this match though, conscious of the time. M's warned him to kept Bond on a tight leash. Q is keen not to disappoint. He makes a half-hearted genuflection towards Bond, accepting defeat. 

"We certainly don't have the time to get a new suit tailored. You know we've only got a short window to plant the device on Holstein, the dishwashers will just have to hide their disgust." 

Bond sighs, eyes darting around the open-plan space and Q's scared for a second that he's going to suggest making a suit out of the curtains. The answer is just as bad.

"Fine," Bond concedes, "You're in luck. I have a spare one."

Q cackles, eyes wandering over Bond's taut stomach, the fabric of his shirt practically glued to his skin, "I can't go looking like a kid dressing up in their Dad's suit." 

"Pins, my dear boy, pins," Bond whispers, a small grin playing on his lips as he leads Q into the adjacent bedroom. 

The room is messy, pages and pages strewn out over the various cabinets, particular articles and paragraphs stuck to the wall above. It looks like the work of a mad man, but Bond acts like it's nothing out of the ordinary. Q lurks uncomfortably in the doorway, staring at Bond as he bends over, rummaging through drawers, the finer details of his body masked by the dim curtains. When he turns back to face Q, he is carrying a neat pile of clothing, an open sewing box resting on top of them. 

Bond stares at him, not as cold as before. "Undress," he demands.

Bond's words are direct, concise. Q hears them crystal clear, yet they refuse to properly register in his brain. He's had dreams that start like this. But now all he wants to do is run. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He can't run from 007. No one can. Instead, he takes a faltering step into the room, door banging shut behind him. A feeling of entrapment spreads through his body, the light that flickers above him making him feel vulnerable and uneasy.

He still goes along with it, shaking his blazer off and leaving it pooled at his feet. His eyes are firmly locked onto Bond: he knows Bond thinks he’s going to shy away, retreat in a corner away from Bond’s analytical gaze. Q’s never been one to back down from a challenge. And that’s what it quickly becomes, just another battle between them of who’ll break first. They hold each other’s stare as Q’s fingers tug at his tie, finding it a much harder task when he can’t look down at the knot. He gets it loose anyway, and it joins the blazer on the floor. 

The heat of Tallinn is getting to Q, and he fumbles as he works his way through the buttons on his shirt. The first two are a bit wobbly but he can’t seem to get a hold of the third, still determined to keep his eyes fixed on the agent. The button slips through his fingertips once more, and that’s it. 

“Fool,” Bond whispers with no malice in his voice. He breaks their little staring contest, in favour of dragging Q closer by the waistband of his trousers. The warmth of Bond so close to him makes Q’s head spin and those dexterous hands make quick work of the rest of the buttons. There isn’t a moment of hesitation; suddenly, Bond’s fingers are unzipping his fly, pulling his trousers down. Bond crouches, helps Q untangle his legs, fingertips brushing against Q's shins.

Q is stood in the middle of God knows where, on this stupid mission - that _wasn’t even supposed to be a mission! He was just supposed to act as a Q branch delivery man!_ \- paisley boxers covering what little dignity he has left. He finds he no longer cares what Bond thinks, no longer cares that Bond’s eyes have travelled all over his naked flesh, no longer cares that his skinny ribs and knobbly knees can’t live up to the models Bond typically beds. 

Bond throws a much nicer pair of blue gingham trousers his way. He proceeds to precariously dangle pins in his mouth as Q shucks the trousers up his legs. He nearly chuckles at how ill-fitting they are, clutching at the waistband. So loose that if he lets go, they’ll just fall back down. Bond stalks over, observes Q like he’s prey. Warm, firm hands replace Q’s shaky ones. Bond stands face to face with Q, using his grip on the other man to pull him close. Fingers trace the waistband to rest at the small of Q’s back. Bond clutches the fabric together, fingertips brushing against Q’s fair skin, the other man trying to hide the shivers that course through his body at the faintest contact. To pin the fabric just right, Bond has to lean over Q’s shoulder, so close to resting his chin on Q's jutting bones. 

The first few pins are secured, so Bond spins him around then kneels. The agent secures more pins around the area, hands traversing dangerously close to Q’s bottom. Short pants leave Q’s mouth and he’s trying his best not to freak out - he _really_ is - but it’s hard to fight the warmth that is spreading to his groin as _James Bond_ is currently touching him in all the right places. He can’t help but succumb to the older man’s hands, accepting whatever fate lies in store. 

Those strong, determined hands leave the space they were occupying near his lower back, and Q bites back a whine. Bond leaves a empty weight with Q, as he goes back to the pile of clothes, comparing one of his own shirts with the shirt Q had brought. Q notices Bond shrug slightly, the action so small he nearly misses it. Bond discards his own shirt, throwing the one he's just took off Q back to him. Q's familiar with the routine of this now, doesn't even bother to try and button up his shirt. Instead he feels relief when Bond takes up the task for him, the small act fulfilling the part of him that yearns for quiet and domesticity. Bond crouches to tuck the shirt into the front of his trousers. Bond's face is directly in front of his crotch and his hands are currently rubbing Q's stomach. All of a sudden it's too much, Q's head's too dizzy and he's lost the ability to think. Feeling this vulnerable repulses Q.

So a hand automatically moves the other man, a faint warning of, "Bond..." on his lips, a million things he'd like to say but will never be brave enough.

He expects Bond to turn frosty, for the temperature to drop drastically as Bond moves away with disdain. He expects Bond to order him out of the room, to throw the rest of the clothes at him, or maybe he'll just ship Q back to London. Instead, Bond looks up at Q through hooded lashes, and the implications of that - of Bond in such a submissive position, Bond submitting to _Q_ \- that makes Q feel like he's drowning, desperate to anchor himself to the other man. The only sound in the room is Bond's laboured breaths, until he breaks the silence with a whisper of "James. Call me James." 

James. As Q gets used to a foreign name tumbling out of his mouth, he's taken aback by something in Bond- in _James'_ expression. Pain, he thinks at first, but dismisses it. He just knows it's something he's never seen before in the other man, perhaps something nobody's ever seen before. The notion of that sets Q alight. So, even if his first instinct is to shove James and flee, he fights his anxieties and puts his hand in James', gripping hard as he pulls James up. 

Q begins to lean into James' touch, murmuring a hum of contentment as James fastens a waistcoat around him, sneaking a few small pins near his shoulders.

_God, who's he kidding?_ Q's so turned on by James' touch right now, and then James tugs on the tie, choking Q slightly and clogging the air in his throat, opening up a world of kinks he never knew he had. Once more, he feels like he's at breaking point, feel like he's going to melt and flow through James' fingers like water. But most of all, he just feels too much. Before his flight instincts had kicked in and he'd tried to make a run for it. This time it's different. He's come this far, been poked and prodded at by James' gorgeous touch. If Q doesn't try, doesn't dip his toes into those vast waters, he'll forever regret it. Q thinks of the empty bed and cold sheets that wait for him and how much he longs for James' toasty weight besides him. He takes the plunge. 

Q takes a step closer to James, the movement confident and self-assured before the inevitable doubt gnaws its way in. James reacts instantly, a smirk playing across those lips, like he had anticipated every second of this. It only serves to make Q bolder, to strip James of the arrogance he uses as a shield. He shoves his nose in James' face, so close but not touching. Q looks him straight in the eye, refusing to back down until James makes a move. Each second goes by agonisingly slow and suddenly it feels like they've been stood there forever, Q willing James to move, determined not to cave this time. In the end, James' hand reaches up to Q's face, and he draws a thumb across Q's bottom lip. Q's mouth slacks. Compliant. Open. Ready.

"We're going to be late." James says, withdrawing the hand and walking out of the room. Q has no choice but to gather the equipment and jog after the other man like a puppy dog. James has always been a tease.

***

Q is sat on a barstool, swinging his legs like a little kid. It's inevitable that his shoes collide with 007's. (It's an unspoken rule to drop the 'James' as soon as they left that bedroom.) The agent gives Q a light kick back, eyes not leaving the grand staircase. There's a red carpet and a million chandeliers and gowns that look like they're from another century entirely. Even with his new suit and the pins that are currently digging into what feels like every inch of his skin, Q feels like the odd one out. But frankly, Q is sick of waiting for this guy to make an entrance and is getting more bored by the minute. So, he does the reasonable thing and keeps kicking Bond. Then, that ceases to be fun and he changes to dragging the tip of his foot over that pristine trouser leg. Bond still does not react. Q wriggles just enough to hook his toes under the cuffs of Bond's trousers, making them ride up so that the leather of his shoe connects with Bond's bare skin. Q swears he hears 007's breath hitch the slightest fraction, and that's all the encouragement he needs to keep at it, running up and down Bond's legs, grinning devilishly. Just as Q thinks he's gotten the upper hand, Bond turns to him and places a hand on Q's upper thigh, inches away from his crotch. Q instantly freezes, legs falling to their proper place. He can't read Bond's face at all, features flat and voice monotone. 

"Brat," Bond whispers in Q's ear, mouth deliberately close to Q's skin. Q's about to respond by sticking his tongue out at the other man until a hush encases the hall, everybody's eyes drifting to the man who hobbles down the staircase. 

It's like Bond's eyes have caught fire, a drive in him that Q rarely sees as he practically jumps out of his seat, snaking around the crowd that has gathered, in order to find his prey. Q watches nonplussed, though he's trying to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. _This is a walk in the park for Bond,_ he tells himself, _this will be fine. He just has to plant a tiny device onto one of the most powerful men in Europe._ The bold drums of his heart reach a crescendo as Bond pulls the man in for a pat on the back. Q wonders if Bond’s even managed it, his movements so casual that nothing seemed misplaced. But then Bond winks at him, that familiar cocksure action that makes all the tension disappear from Q’s body. Of course he did it. 

***

No matter how uncomplicated the task might have been, Q’s a little smug that even Bond gets an adrenaline rush from a completed mission. He’s more forward and brash than usual, a hand on Q’s thigh as he updates MI6 on their status. When Q opens the car door for him, Bond gives him this dopey, lop-sided smile that makes Q think they might have had one too many martinis. (It also makes Q’s heart _ache._ He ignores that bit, though.) 

When Q finally ushers Bond into the house, there’s immediately a pair of warm, strong hands slipping the jacket from off his shoulders. Q goes along with it: the moral debate about sleeping with Bond replaced by an overwhelming feelings of _wantwantwant_ flooding through his veins. He tries to loosen the knot of his tie but Bond-no- _James_ swats his hands away. Instead, he pushes Q against the nearest wall, hands traversing over the vast expanse of fabric. A pair of lips attach themselves to Q's neck and in between fragmented kisses and nips of flesh James grunts, _"Shouldn't. Be. Allowed. To. Look. That. Good. In. My. Suit."_

Q feels his response clog up in his throat, coming out as a soft moan as James traces the edges of Q's waistcoat with his nose, inhaling the scent that Q has left on his clothes. Bond travels lower, and Q's getting flashbacks to earlier that day, their last meeting where James had knelt in this position. But it's different now, James won't leave Q unsatisfied, mouth again Q's inner thighs. His hands explore the backs of Q's legs and Q can't help but squirm against the wall as the pins Bond had used earlier begin to dig in with every movement from the other man. James realises and those nimble fingers remove them instantly. Q refuses to look down but the sound of metal clattering against the ground echoes through the room and the pain around his waist subsides. His trousers are only being held up by James' vice-like hold on Q's legs whilst he presses butterfly kisses across Q's stomach. James lets the trousers fall; he has more important matters to attend to. Namely, licking around the wet patch that has appeared on Q's boxers, eliciting a whimper from the other man before tugging them down and encasing Q's cock in his mouth. 

James learnt to ignore his gag reflex a long time ago and he takes all of Q in one go, sucking and scrapping and licking that makes Q's head spin. He's managed to tear his eyes from the ceiling long enough to take a quick glance at James and immediately regrets it. James being so eager to serve, submissive under his touch, kneeling to Q's every need - it takes all of Q's strength to make sure his legs don't give in. He becomes bold enough to slip a hand into James' cropped hair. Q is already embarrassingly close to coming, unable to fend his orgasm off when James Bond is slack jawed around his cock, so utterly compliant under his touch. He gives James a polite tug: a warning that James doesn't heed. He just swallows Q even further, relaxing his grip on Q's calves in favour of stroking the soft muscles. It's that action, in the end, that tips Q over the edge. There's something so gentle, so raw about it all that floods Q's senses, coming into James' mouth. James swallows it all and doesn't even take a second to breathe before he's planting more kisses down Q's legs, then back up, over the bespoke material, fabric familiar and yet so foreign under his teeth. James finally reaches Q's face and Q's had enough, sick of the teasing, pulling James up by his tie, pressing a firm kiss against the other man's lips. Q isn't repulsed by the taste of himself in James' mouth, tracing the remnants of the act with his tongue. They both try to move in the general direction of the bedroom, managing a few shaky steps before Q trips over his own trousers, still caught around his ankles. James uses the opportunity to pick him up. He weighs nothing to the other man; Q secretly content to be handled like one of the women that would usually be in this bedroom. Instead of the princesses and models, it's a scrawny geek from Q branch who ends up under the covers with James that night. He takes Q's glasses off, places them on the nightstand before turning to face a giggling Q. James raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

"S'funny," he says, face in James' pillow, "M sent me because he thought I'd be the only person you wouldn't sleep with." 

"Well, I do like to defy expectations."

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos are greatly appreciated! thank you for reading


End file.
